Swordplay
by dust on the wind
Summary: If you have to challenge the Kommandant to a duel, it's a real good idea to know how to use a sabre...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

_Apropos "Duel of Honour", which probably causes sabreurs everywhere to cheer wildly...just before they fall over laughing._

* * *

So far the plan was going well. Erika, the beautiful Underground agent, had played her part with consummate acting skill, convincing the Kommandant of Stalag 13 that she had conceived a mad, uncontrollable passion for him. And Carter, taking on the role of her jealous, sabre-happy husband, had produced yet another convincing, unnerving portrayal of mental derangement in German uniform.

Klink was about ready to fall to pieces. It was a safe bet that within twenty-four hours the Iron Colonel, fleeing from the prospect of a sabre duel with General Weidler, would be on his way to Argentina. Or so he believed. In fact the plane would deliver him to London, along with the information Erika had risked her life to obtain: the names of the men who were planning to assassinate Hitler.

Colonel Hogan was happy. So were his men.

All but one of them.

"What if Klink turns up for the duel?"

Carter had been very quiet for some time before he suddenly came out with this. He was sitting with his elbows on the table, his chin resting on his hands and a troubled look on his face. Actually it was hard to tell, sometimes, with Carter, since his customary expression was one of vague, non-specific misgiving, anyway.

"He won't, Carter," said Hogan. "You got him so spooked, he'd probably _swim_ to Argentina if he had to."

"Yeah, but what if he doesn't go, Colonel?" Carter persisted. "What am I supposed to do then?"

"How do you mean, Andrew?" asked Newkirk, folding his arms and gazing at Carter.

"Well, gee, Newkirk, I don't know how to fight a duel, do I?" Carter looked up with big, anxious eyes. "I mean, Klink's probably not real good at it, but at least he's done it before. I got no idea."

"Carter, you won't have to fight," said Hogan. "Even if Klink turns up - which he won't - you're not going to be there."

Carter clasped his hands together on the table top as he considered Hogan's argument, and rejected it. "That wouldn't be right. I'm the one who challenged him. I can't just not show up."

"He's right," remarked LeBeau. "It's a matter of honour." He fell silent, as Newkirk glared at him.

"Let's get one thing straight. It wasn't Carter who issued the challenge," Hogan pointed out. "It was General Weidler. You were acting, Carter. Playing a part. So it doesn't count."

"Right, Colonel," said Carter, but he didn't seem convinced.

Just after lunch, Newkirk came into Hogan's quarters. "Can I have a word, sir? It's about Carter."

"What's he doing now?" asked Hogan, looking up from the fake newspaper they'd printed the day before, as part of the scam. Kinch had really had some fun with the want ads.

"He's just told LeBeau that if anything happens, he wants him to have his Rita Hayworth poster. LeBeau's not very happy about it. He doesn't even like Rita Hayworth," explained Newkirk. "You know what I think, Colonel? I think Carter's planning to turn up for that duel, whether Klink does or not."

"Well, let him," said Hogan impatiently. "Klink won't be there, anyway, so no harm done."

"Thing is, sir, he's getting in a bit of a state about it," Newkirk went on uncomfortably. "It's doing him no good."

Hogan sighed. "Okay. So what do you suggest we do about it?"

"Well, it's not my idea. Erika came up with it. Seems one of her contacts in Hammelburg runs a fencing school. Now, if we just run Carter into town, get him a quick lesson, it'll give him a bit of confidence, he'll stop worrying and get a good night's sleep, and everything'll be fine."

"He won't get much from one lesson, Newkirk," remarked Hogan. "It takes years."

"You know that, sir, and I know that, but Carter doesn't. And like you said, Klink won't turn up, so he won't need to put it into practice."

Hogan considered, then shook his head. "It's too risky. We don't go out in daylight unless it's absolutely necessary."

There was a pause, before Newkirk tried again. "Colonel," he said in a low voice, "he's given Kinch his Molotov cocktail recipe."

That made Hogan sit up and take notice. "You're kidding." It was serious, then. "Alright. You go with him, and make sure you're both back before roll-call."

He returned to the phoney newspaper, and turned to the sports page. "Hey, it says here Spain won the World Cup."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "It'll never happen," he murmured, on his way out.

An hour later, two men and a woman stood on the pavement in front of the _Apotheke_ on Lindenstraße. To one side of the shop window, a door gave access to the _Fechtakademie Schmidt, _on the second floor.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea, Newkirk," said Carter, looking at the door as if it was the gate to Purgatory.

"Don't worry, sergeant." Erika gave him an encouraging smile. "Herr Schmidt is an excellent teacher."

Something in her voice suggested Herr Schmidt might be more than that, and Newkirk gave her a thoughtful look. But on first sight of the fencing master, he dismissed the idea. Schmidt was neither particularly young nor particularly well-favoured. Somehow Newkirk had imagined fencers to be lean and athletic. This one was almost egg-shaped, and had less hair on his head than Klink, though rather more on his hands.

He greeted Erika pleasantly, and glanced at her companions with mild curiosity, which gradually evolved into amusement as she explained the situation. When Klink's name came up, he uttered a low, scornful laugh.

"I have seen Colonel Klink in action," he observed, in almost perfect English. "He trained here once or twice. His technique consists mainly of flailing about wildly and hoping for the best."

"That's more or less how he runs Stalag 13," said Newkirk. "And it doesn't work there, either."

Schmidt scrutinised Carter with a professional eye. He turned to his assistant, a skinny bespectacled adolescent, not yet of military age. "Emil, find a jacket for this gentleman."

Carter had a slightly panicky look about him, as he followed Emil into a side room.

"I should go back to the hotel," said Erika, holding out her hand to Newkirk. "Good luck."

"You too, love."

Newkirk took a good look around the fencing studio; a large, sparsely furnished space, with a high, bare-timbered ceiling generously supplied with skylights. It must be a nightmare during air-raids, but somehow he didn't think the fencing master was one to worry about such minor inconveniences.

Herr Schmidt was regarding him with interest. "You don't wish to learn the art of the sword, _mein Herr_?"

"Me? Gawd, no," said Newkirk frankly. "Too much like hard work - no offence."

Schmidt tilted his head to one side. "You have the right build for it - excellent upper body strength. And I sense you're a man who knows how to plan ahead, yet is prepared to recognise and take advantage of any unexpected opportunity. You could be a good fencer, with a year or so of intensive training."

"Can't spare the time, gov'nor. Honest. Just give my mate in there a bit of a leg up, that's all we need."

For a moment Newkirk was afraid the man was going to insist, but then he shrugged. "Your friend will not do so well. Good fitness level, but he has a short attention span. I can always tell."

"As long as he thinks he can beat Klink, that'll do," said Newkirk.

He had to fight down a laugh a few minutes later, when Carter returned, in the white jacket and three-quarter breeches which comprised the fencing uniform. Newkirk could tell he knew how silly he looked, especially with bare feet.

"I could not find shoes to fit, _Maestro_," explained Emil. He had a half-smile on his face, suggesting he was anticipating some fun from this session.

"We will do without," proclaimed Schmidt, in the manner of the Elector issuing a royal decree. "Now, let us start with the basics of footwork."

From the look on Carter's face, he didn't expect this to go well. Based on his usual form, he was probably right.


	2. Chapter 2

The next fifteen minutes placed a serious strain on Newkirk's self-control. Carter had never been the most physically co-ordinated of Hogan's men; good with his hands, inept with everything else. His attempts to follow the fencing master's instructions were alternately pitiable and hilarious, when they weren't both at once.

"Front foot forward - step forward, step forward, _front foot first_. Keep doing it like that, and you will fall over. You see? Now, get up and try again. And keep your body upright. Pay no attention to your friend. You should be looking at your opponent. Emil, go and stand at the other end of the _piste_. Now, Emil is your opponent. Look at him. Step forward, again, again..._Gott im Himmel..._ Get up and try again."

It was better than a Saturday night at the Palladium.

After some time, however, Carter started to get the hang of it, and managed to negotiate the length of the fencing strip, forwards and backwards, without landing on the floor. Herr Schmidt smiled. "I think we can proceed," he said. "Emil..."

The assistant scurried away. A few moments later he returned, with two full-face wire mesh masks under one arm, and a pair of fencing sabres in his other hand. Newkirk, interested in spite of himself, edged forward for a closer look.

They were lightweight weapons, intended for sport rather than for any serious form of combat. Emil passed one of them to Schmidt, and with a courteous gesture at odds with the barely-suppressed grin on his face, presented the hilt of the other to Carter, but Newkirk reached past him to take up the sword.

He was astonished at how perfectly balanced it was, and how lightly and comfortably it fitted into his hand.

"Just use your fingertips," said the fencing master. "Thumb and forefinger, the others just resting against the grip. You should be able to switch your guard from right to left by moving only your fingers."

Newkirk gave it a try, turning the grip in his fingers, and the weapon responded as if it were part of him. "Oh, that's nice," he murmured.

"You wouldn't like to reconsider, and start training now?" suggested Schmidt.

"Yeah, Newkirk, maybe you could have the duel with Klink, instead of me," added Carter. He wasn't joking.

"No, not me. You're the one who challenged him." Newkirk hurriedly passed the sabre to Carter, who clutched it as if he thought it might run away at the first chance.

"You played baseball as a child, didn't you?" observed Schmidt gravely.

"Yeah, sometimes. I wasn't real good at it, though," admitted Carter. "I used to drop the bat a lot."

"You astonish me," said Schmidt, glancing at Newkirk, his eyes bright with amusement.

Carter didn't like the fencing mask. "Gosh, this is awful. It's like being in the cooler, only smaller. And it smells worse."

"If you would rather lose an eye," replied Schmidt serenely, "be my guest." Carter didn't take up the offer.

With the arrival of the weapons, some new element had entered the lesson. Newkirk, watching with keen interest, knew that this was still only a game, but it didn't feel like it. Having drilled Carter in the correct way to salute his opponent, a courtesy apparently considered indispensible, Schmidt dismissed Emil, and took the other end of the strip himself. And suddenly this precise, rotund little man stopped being comic, and started to look like very serious trouble indeed. He was neat, agile, and lightning fast, and he didn't hold back, just because his opponent was a beginner. In spite of Carter's best efforts to use the defensive moves he had been shown, the fencing master still had no difficulty getting past his guard, and they weren't gentle hits.

"You're too slow," said Schmidt, in a tone of austere disapproval. "You should be aware of my attack almost before it starts, and react to it instinctively." His blade, with a whistle of displaced air, whipped around to land with a loud _thwack_ against Carter's upper arm. That had to hurt. "Stop watching the blade, it's not going to tell you anything. Watch me. Fence the man, not the weapon."

Whether it was the pain, or annoyance at Schmidt's manner, something had an effect. Carter blocked the next attack. And the one after.

"Very good." There was just a touch of scorn in Schmidt's voice. "Now, let's see if you can't grasp the idea of _riposte_. That means, when you've successfully parried an attack, make the most of the opportunity and get one in yourself. And you might try making the first attack yourself occasionally, instead of waiting for your opponent to slay you where you stand. It's quite simple, even a child can do it."

Carter was not a child. So of course, it wasn't simple at all.

"Take a break," said the fencing master at last. "Two minutes." He raised and lowered his sword in a brief acknowledgement, and removed his mask.

"How's it going, Carter?" asked Newkirk brightly. "You looked like you had him worried."

Carter, his face scarlet and damp with perspiration, shook his head. "Yeah, sure," he panted. Then, as he started to get his breath back, he added, "I look like a joke, Newkirk. I can't do this stuff."

"No, you're doing fine." Newkirk clapped him gently on the arm, and Carter winced. Schmidt had landed a couple of hits, good and hard, just there. "Sorry. Look, it's like he says. You just have to hit him back a few times."

He was starting to worry. If Carter was going to get discouraged, this whole idea was a washout.

"Did you see how fast he moves?" replied Carter. "If I had a machine gun, I still couldn't hit him. You wouldn't think a funny-looking little guy like that..."

He trailed off, dispirited.

"Time!" called the fencing master imperatively, and Carter, with a sigh, turned back towards the _piste_, while Newkirk moved out of the way. He glanced at his watch as he did so. Almost four o'clock. They had to be back at camp by six.

He looked up, his attention drawn by a movement at the studio entrance. Then, with a startled gasp, he vanished precipitantly into the changing room. Carter, facing away from the entrance, gazed after him in perplexity.

"I'm sorry, this is a private lesson," said Schmidt, looking past Carter towards the door.

"Please excuse the interruption, Herr Schmidt. It's an emergency."

At the sound of that voice, a cold prickle of horror went over Carter's entire body. Then, unable to think of anything else to do, he jammed the fencing mask back over his head. He didn't turn around.

Schmidt seemed unfazed. "I hate to be disobliging, Colonel Klink," he said coolly, "but this gentleman was here first."

"But this is a matter of life and death." Klink's voice veered from baritone to countertenor and back again in his agitation.

"We all have our problems, Colonel. Monsieur André, here, is competing in Hannover next week. He's ranked second in Europe, you know, and he's looking forward to improving his standing."

"I didn't think they were still running that kind of competition," said Klink.

"My dear man, if we let the important things lapse, just because there's a war on, where are we going to end up?" replied Schmidt, in a voice of sweet, inarguable reason. "I can see you tomorrow afternoon," he added.

"Tomorrow afternoon will be too late," protested Klink. "By that time, I could be...well, let's just say I won't be needing a lesson by then. Either way."

Schmidt gazed at him thoughtfully, then turned to Carter. "Monsieur André, perhaps it might be possible to oblige the Kommandant. You are about as ready now as you will ever be. I was going to suggest that you finish with a practice bout against Emil, but you could just as well face Colonel Klink, and give him a bit of a workout. Would you be so kind...?"

It was the last thing Carter wanted to do right now, but he could hardly refuse. He nodded, without speaking.

"Excellent. Emil - " Schmidt nodded towards the changing room.

Newkirk barely had time to take cover behind the cupboard where the masks were stored. He flattened himself against the wall on the far side, and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady, as Emil conducted the Kommandant into the changing room. Klink wasn't the type to notice odd noises, especially when he was agitated, but better not to take chances.

In the studio, Schmidt had already commenced the delicate task of calming down a thoroughly alarmed Monsieur André. "There's nothing to worry about," the fencing master said. "Trust me. I know how Klink fences. You can take him."

"But what if he recognises me?" quavered Carter. He'd yanked off the mask as soon as Klink was out of sight. "Maybe I should just make a break for it."

"Dressed like that? And leaving your friend behind?" Schmidt drew himself up. "That's hardly what I'd expect of one of my students. Never run away from an engagement, young man. You'll only end up wondering whether you could have won it."

Carter stared at him, as he assimilated this new perspective. It wasn't so hard; it sort of made sense to him. "Okay," he said uncertainly.

"Good. Now, it's a breach of etiquette, but under the circumstances you'd better leave the mask on. I will excuse it this once." Schmidt glanced over his shoulder, then gave Carter a quick warning look, and Carter hastily replaced the mask, just in time.

If Carter in fencer's kit was an amusing spectacle, Klink looked utterly ludicrous. Newkirk, creeping back to the changing room door and opening it a crack, was hard-pressed to keep his laughter in check. But it was no laughing matter.

_What's that Schmidt think he's playing at? _Newkirk asked himself. He couldn't come up with an answer. All he could think of was the risk of Carter getting caught. Or worse - getting hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

Klink went to the far end of the strip, clutching his mask and sabre in the manner of a drowning man clinging to pieces of flotsam. "Shouldn't he take off the mask for the salute?" he asked, looking at Carter with a worried frown.

"He never takes it off when fencing," replied Schmidt, then leaned towards Klink in a confiding manner, and whispered, "He has a scar. Well, more than that, really. Believe me, Colonel, you don't want to see it. It only makes him angry if his opponent insists on seeing it."

He moved to the side of the _piste. _"_En garde_," he said.

Carter tried desperately to remember everything - anything - he'd been told in the last hour.

"_Prêts?_"

He couldn't think of a thing. The whole lesson was a complete blank.

"_Allez_."

Neither Klink nor Carter made a move. For ten seconds - fifteen seconds - there was no sound. Emil, standing on the opposite side of the strip from Schmidt, folded his arms, and looked up at the ceiling, the picture of adolescent boredom.

"_Halte_!" said the fencing master. "Gentlemen, allow me to congratulate you on your excellent deportment. Now stop wasting my time, and start fencing. _En garde. __Prêts?_ Allez."

This time Klink actually took the initiative, making a couple of ungainly hops forward, like a magpie preparing to pounce on an unwary snail. Carter held his ground. The Kommandant swayed back and forth, looking about as unmenacing as imaginable, then suddenly rushed forward, waving his sabre with all the precision and control of a runaway windmill. Carter retreated, trying to parry, but he wasn't fast enough, and Klink's blade whipped across his leg, just above the knee.

It didn't start stinging for several seconds, but he knew all about it after that.

"_Halte_!" called the fencing master. "Off target. No hit. Above the waist, please, Colonel, or it doesn't count. _En garde. __Prêts?_ Allez."

Less than five seconds later, Carter received another hit, in the same place as the first. And this time it didn't just sting; it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He bit back an exclamation, pressing his lips tightly together.

"_Halte_! Off target, no hit. Please, Colonel, try to direct your attack with more accuracy. Monsieur André, your guard is a little erratic. Remember what I said."

_You said a whole lot of stuff_, thought Carter resentfully. Nevertheless, he took up his stance again, prepared to take another hit if he had to.

"_En garde_."

_Fence the man, not the weapon._ That was it, that was what he had said.

"_Prêts?_"

Carter straightened up, his eyes suddenly fixed on his opponent. Kommandant Klink. The man whose business it was to make their lives a misery. The man who put sawdust in the bread they ate, bargained for stale meat and shrivelled vegetables, and watered the milk even more than it already was, just so he could skim a little off the top of the camp budget. The man who ordered prisoners to be locked up the cooler over trivial offences, sometimes for weeks at a time, and who smiled when he gave the order.

"_Allez_."

And this time, when Klink advanced with another of those ridiculous jumps, and more wild sweeps of the sabre, Carter was ready. How he knew what to do would forever remain a mystery, but it just made sense. He didn't try to parry; he dipped his blade beneath one of Klink's uncontrolled slashes, then let it swing round towards the Kommandant's elbow. Klink uttered a squeak, and almost dropped his sabre.

"_Halte_." There was unconcealed satisfaction in Schmidt's voice. "Attack from my left failed, counter-attack was good. Point to the fencer on my right."

On the next rally, Carter did it again.

_Boy, this is actually fun!_ he thought. _I wonder what else I can do?_

In pursuit of this thought, he changed his tactics, and instead of waiting for Klink to start the attack, he made the advance himself. Klink, totally unprepared, scuttled backwards in a near panic, and stumbled over the end of the strip.

"You have gone off the _piste_, Colonel Klink," observed Schmidt, gravely reproving. "That's a point against you. The score is three-nil."

"You didn't give me a warning," whined the Kommandant, stepping back onto the strip.

"You didn't give me time," replied Schmidt. "_En garde..._"

Newkirk, watching from the relative safety of the changing room, could hardly contain his enthusiasm over the next quarter of an hour. He had no idea how Carter was pulling this off, but Klink was well on the back foot. By the time Schmidt called time, Carter had eleven points to his credit; three of them for scaring Klink into running off the end of the strip. Klink, by some fluke, had managed two valid hits, and a few more off-targets. They were both going to be sore tonight.

They were both pretty breathless right now. Carter's chest was visibly expanding and contracting with every breath, but he was still upright; it took a lot to wear him down. Nobody who wasn't in good shape lasted long on Hogan's team. Klink was another matter. He only managed to get the mask off his head with Emil's assistance. Beneath the mesh, his face - in fact, the whole of his bald head - was scarlet, and dripping with sweat. He staggered towards the nearest seat; if the way he moved was anything to go by, he'd aged a couple of decades in the last fifteen minutes.

Schmidt allowed him to reach the chair before speaking: "You didn't shake hands, Colonel. It is in the rules, you know. You must shake hands with your opponent."

Klink, in the act of lowering his aching body onto the seat, stopped. He couldn't look any more miserable than he already did, but the expression of reproach on his face as he turned was one of the gladdest sights Newkirk had seen in years.

"Quickly, please, Colonel. Monsieur André has an appointment elsewhere." So he did; at Stalag 13, for roll-call.

The Kommandant had no choice but to hobble back to the _piste_, and offer his left hand to Carter, while the fencing master beamed on them in complacent approval.

"You seem a little stiff, Colonel," he observed kindly. "Perhaps a few stretches would help. Emil, please show the Kommandant a few easy exercises." He nodded to Carter, glancing towards the changing room door, and Carter took the hint, and retired.

"That was brilliant, Carter!" whispered Newkirk, as soon as Carter was well inside and the door closed.

Carter, with a sigh of weary relief, took off the mask. He was flushed, and his hair clung in damp strands to his forehead, but he was smiling; slightly perplexed at what he'd achieved, but unable to hide his satisfaction at having achieved it. "It's pretty good fun, Newkirk," he said. "Especially against Klink." He wriggled his shoulders a little, and winced. "But it sure hurts sometimes."

Newkirk helped him out of the jacket. "Oh, blimey, Andrew!" he muttered, at sight of a bright red welt across Carter's inside forearm.

Carter glanced at it in bemusement. "Gosh. I didn't feel that one at all. Guess Klink got lucky there. He got me a couple of good ones on the leg, but he didn't get any points for that."

Newkirk's face, when on the removal of the breeches he caught sight of the complex arrangement of rapidly blackening bruises on Carter's thigh, was a clear indicator of future trouble for the Kommandant, but Carter was philosophical. "At least I got something to show for it."

"You certainly have, Carter," said Newkirk, wincing in sympathy.

He helped Carter into his street clothes, then went to the door. Herr Schmidt was watching his young assistant as he worked on the hapless Kommandant, who was being stretched and twisted into shapes and positions normally associated with modern sculpture rather than human physiology.

The fencing master caught Newkirk's eye, and gave him a subtle nod. "Emil," he observed, "Colonel Klink looks as if his shoulders are too tight. Perhaps you could give him some help with that."

Emil, ever obliging, promptly directed Klink to lie on his stomach, then, with one knee planted firmly between the Kommandant's shoulder blades, yanked one arm up till it was almost vertical.

"How's that?" he asked innocently; and as Klink just moaned in reply, he gave a little nod of satisfaction. "Good, that means it's working." He set to work on the other arm; and with the Kommandant's attention fully engaged, Newkirk and Carter were able to slip out of the studio and into the street.

"You know, Carter," said Newkirk, as they headed home, "I don't know if we should mention it to anyone about Klink being there. Colonel Hogan wasn't too keen on letting us out, he might decide to put his foot down next time."

"Gee, Newkirk, I don't know," murmured Carter. "All those bruises are going to take some explaining."

Newkirk smirked. "You want to tell everyone Klink got past your guard?"

And Carter, thinking it over from that viewpoint, came to the conclusion that maybe Newkirk was right.

* * *

"...over the target area in forty-five minutes. Over and out." Kinch lowered the microphone, and turned to Hogan. "Plane's right on schedule," he said.

"Let's hope Klink is," replied Hogan. But he had no real concerns on that score.

"Gee, I guess we'll never fight our sabre duel," Carter remarked casually.

He wasn't game to look at Newkirk, in case either of them cracked up. But they both knew, that duel had already been won.


End file.
